There You'll Find Me

by Thomas Nelson

  I tiptoed around Mrs. Sweeney’s bed and to her dresser. I reached for the top drawer, and the thing wouldn’t budge. Gripping the pull, I gave it a yank. On the third try, it flung open and letters spilled onto the floor.

  Peering inside, I saw stacks and stacks of letters. Same white envelopes. Same address. To Fiona Doyle, Galway. From Cathleen Sweeney.

  Each one marked return to sender.

  Just like the one in my hand.

  “Now, we’re just looking today, Erin.” Nora O’Callaghan held up a soft ivory dress that shimmered under the lights of Hargood’s House of Formal Wear, a store that mostly carried a small selection of custom bridal wear and custom pieces.

  “So the girls wear white dresses and the boys wear . . . ?”

  “White shirts,” Erin said. “Nice pants, many wear suits, usually in light colors.”

  “I was hoping the guys had to dress like Columbus.” I flipped through two racks of white flowy dresses, the kind you’d wear on a summer night on the beach or frolicking through an Irish field of wildflowers looking for fey folk and leprechauns.

  “Do you see anything you like?” A woman popped her head between two racks, a measuring tape dangling from her neck and a pincushion wrapped around her wrist.

  “Deirdre here makes them special every year,” Nora said.

  “Sure. Me and me daughter. We order some too. Those folks in China make a good St. Flanagan’s Day dress as well.”

  “Nothing compares to yours, and you know it.”

  Deirdre held up a humble hand. “You get the dress in one of the four sizes,” she said to me, “and we alter it to fit.”

  “Och, Erin, what about this one, then?” Nora held up a white thing with a ruched top and tea-length skirt.

  “That one’s made just for your tiny frame,” Deirdre said.

  “What do you think, Finley?” Erin asked.

  “You’d look beautiful in it.”

  Nora grabbed an armful of choices and pushed us toward the dressing rooms. “In you go. I’ll pass the garments over. I’ve left your dad and Liam at home fixing a broken washing machine, so quickly, if you please. I’m afraid, given too much time, Liam will have the thing torn apart and refashioned as a robot.”

  “Who are you asking to the dance?” I asked Erin from my dressing room as I lifted my sweater over my head. The full-length mirror in front of me framed my body, and I stepped closer and stared. My eyes traced the line of my hips, my convex stomach, the legs beneath my jeans.

  What did the world see when they looked at me?

  “I’ve a mind to ask Samuel Connolly,” Erin said from the other side of the wall. “He’s a fifth year, but mature for his age. Very smart. Not much time left to ask though. Why don’t guys get as stressed out about this as we do? I think he likes me, but I’m not sure.”

  “He’d be an idiot if he didn’t like you.” I pulled a dress on, letting it slide down my arms and cascade over me. The material lay soft against my skin and I tried to imagine myself dancing in a cute guy’s arms. Beckett Rush’s smiling face came to mind, and I blinked it away. Silly thoughts.

  Reaching for the door, I stepped outside. “What signs have you seen that Samuel’s interested?”

  “Oh, lots of them,” Erin called. “He said hello to me on Tuesday. Waved at me from his bicycle last Sunday. And I’m fairly certain he smiled when we passed him in our car on Friday. But I could be wrong. He also might’ve been sneezing. It was from a distance. Hard to tell.” The dressing room door creaked as Erin stuck out her head. “So basically either he’s madly in love with me . . . or he doesn’t even know I exist.” With hesitation on her face, Erin joined us.

  Nora dug in her purse and pulled out her phone. “Oh, if your father could see you now, he’d burst into tears.”

  “Mam, no pictures!”

  “It could be your last festival dance. Next year you’ll be gone. I have to document the memories.” The camera flashed twice. “And, Finley, you’re a vision, you are.” She snapped two more. “Your mam will flip.” Nora walked a circle around me. “Just a nip and tuck here and there. Deirdre will make this fit as if it were made for you.”

  Erin smiled. “I think it is.”

  We changed back into our clothes, both Erin and I having our eye on our favorites.

  “There’s himself calling again,” Nora said as she followed us out of the dressing room. “This is the third time your father’s called. I better take it.” She held the phone to her ear and walked toward the front of the store.

  Just as Beatrice and the Poshes walked in.

  “Oh great.” I turned and faced the other direction, studying a rack of dresses with great interest. Mother-of-the-bride dresses.

  “Hello, Bea,” Erin said. “Shopping for a dress?”

  “I’m helping my friends select theirs.” Bea and her minions simultaneously smirked.

  Erin’s smile didn’t falter. “Found your own already?”

  Beatrice tossed her hair. “I had it special ordered, of course.” Her chin lifted as she looked around. “My father had me order a few different gowns for the Hollywood premiere of the movie, so I went ahead and got a dress for the dance. If I’m not working on the next movie, I suppose I’ll be at the festival. I do hope you can find yourself a date this time.” She looked at Erin with feigned pity. “It was so sad last year, to watch you go alone.”

  Erin’s mouth dropped. “Well, I—”

  “And two years in a row?” Beatrice and her girls shared a snotty smile. “Total social death, I would suppose.” Her lips curled in a smile. “Good luck with that.”

  “But . . .” Erin’s cheeks glowed pink. “I . . . I have a date.”

  Like a bad paranormal movie, time seemed to stop as I looked at Erin. And she looked at me.

  “Is that so?” Beatrice’s voice dripped with disbelief as thick as cake batter. “Who?”

  Erin cleared her throat and glanced at me again. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  If was official. My host sister had crossed over to the dark side.

  Desperation had just made this good girl go bad.

  Chapter Twelve

  • Days until audition: 34

  • Breakfast: 2 eggs, 1 Diet Coke

  • Calories: 108

  • Exercise: 1 hour running, 30 min. talking to Mom and Dad

  With the world heavy on my mind Thursday afternoon, I left school as soon as the lunch bell rang, hopped on my bike, and headed toward the nursing home. I had to get my hours in and wrap up the Mrs. Sweeney experience. She was deteriorating, and I didn’t want to be there to see it. And I shouldn’t have to be. What kind of school would put that on a kid?

  The sun warmed my face as I pedaled, and my mind drifted to that morning. After my run I had nothing else to do, so I picked up my worn Bible and cracked it open to Isaiah 43, where the ribbon marker took me.

  Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine. I will be with you when you pass through the waters, and when you pass through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you.

  If that was all true, where was God when my brother died? Where was God when I was at rock bottom last year making stupid choices, seeing two counselors, with parents who watched me for fear that I’d never come out of my bedroom again?

  And where was God now?

  Arriving at the home, I threw the kickstand down and reached into the basket, lifting out a small cooler. It was Nora O’Callaghan’s idea.

  “Bring Mrs. Sweeney a picnic,” she’d said. “Get her outside. She needs some sun.”

  If she melted on my watch, I was so flunking English.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sweeney.” I knocked twice, then walked on inside. As usual, the room’s dimmer switch was locked on depression mode, and I decided I’d had enough. All this darkness couldn’t be good for the woman. Assuming her pain was low today, she was about to get some Vitamin D therapy. “How are you feeling?”

  From h
er bed, Mrs. Sweeney swiveled her head in my direction as I walked to her window. “Who are you?”

  “The same girl who was in here Wednesday. And every glorious visit before that.”

  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” She pointed her finger toward the door. “Leave my room at once.”

  “Nice try. Despite my protests, Belinda assures me there’s nothing wrong with your mind.” Pulling with both hands, I jerked the curtains apart, and sunlight flooded the room.

  Mrs. Sweeney gave a yell from the back of her throat and threw up her arms to cover her face. “I can’t stand that sun!”

  I turned around and smiled. “I see the vampires have gotten to you too.”

  She blinked against the light. “Rude, impertinent child.”

  I walked to her bed and fluffed her pillows, appreciating the organization of her bedside table. “I see you had a shower today. But that hair needs brushing. Tell me where a brush is or I go through all your drawers. You don’t want me to discover your secret stash of Enquirer magazines, do you?”

  “What?” She flopped her hand toward her pine chest-of-drawers.

  “Top drawer. But my hair is fine.”

  “If you want birds to nest.”

  “I mean second one!” Mrs. Sweeney sat up, spitting crackers.

  “Stay out of the top drawer!”

  But it was too late. I opened the drawer and saw the piles of returned letters again. The envelopes seemed to jump out and beg for me to touch them, to deliver them from the cold recesses of the drawer.

  “I said to shut that,” Mrs. Sweeney snapped.

  Biting my tongue on the million questions, I got the brush and went to work, slowly getting out the day’s snarls. “I shopped for a dress yesterday.” That was my new tactic. I was just going to talk like Mrs. Sweeney gave a rat’s tail. Like my life was the most fascinating thing ever. “Erin and I both found dresses. But then we ran into Beatrice.”

  Mrs. Sweeney closed her eyes as if she were sleeping.

  “Beatrice is the villain in this story, in case you’re keeping up. I guess she has a history of harassing Erin and her friends. Erin told Bea she had a date for the dance, and now Erin is going to ask Samuel, but if he says no, it’s gonna be bad. But who would say no to Erin? She’s gorgeous. And I know I should pray for Beatrice, but, well, my prayer list is very long now that I’ve met you, and I simply don’t have time. Should I continue praying for your bunions?”

  Her gray lips tightened.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I set the brush down. “Where was I?

  Oh, I was taking you on a picnic.”

  Her eyes popped open. “A what?”

  “Picnic,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. “You’ll love it.”

  A knock sounded from the door, then Belinda and an assistant walked into the room.

  “Just in time,” I said. “She’s all ready.”

  “No, I’m not!” Mrs. Sweeney sputtered as the two nurses gently eased her into her wheelchair. “Put me down. You can’t manhandle me. I’m a sick woman.”

  “You told the doctor you feel good today,” Belinda said.

  “Finley’s offered to take you outside to get a little air, get some food.” Reaching into Mrs. Sweeney’s closet, the nurse took out a coat and eased the woman into it.

  I grabbed a blanket from the end of her bed and draped it over her legs. “Ready?”

  “No.” Mrs. Sweeney’s eyes were wide, whether with anger or fear, I wasn’t sure. “No, I don’t want to go. I want to eat my lunch here.”

  “It’s beef and cabbage day,” Nurse Belinda said. “You hate cabbage.”

  “Come on, Mrs. Sweeney.” I released the brake on her wheelchair and gripped the handles. “I promise I won’t keep you out past your curfew.” I gave Nurse Belinda a questioning look, but she gave me two thumbs up and waved us out the door.

  “Work on that tan!” Belinda called as I wheeled Mrs. Sweeney down the hall, carrying our picnic in the crook of my arm and praying this didn’t end in disaster.

  “Don’t talk Finley’s ear off, Cathleen,” Belinda said as I pushed Mrs. Sweeney outside.

  The sun shone down on us, and Mrs. Sweeney shielded her eyes with a shaking hand. “It’s too bright.”

  “I can take care of that.” I pulled the pink sunglasses off the top of my head and slipped them on Mrs. Sweeney. “You look fabulous.”

  “I want to go back inside.”

  “As soon as we eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know the feeling. My counselor said being in a funk will do that to you.”

  I pushed the wheelchair down the sidewalk. “You just let me know if you want me to pop any wheelies. We could totally catch air on this thing.”

  Mrs. Sweeney ignored me as she sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her hands tucked inside her coat sleeves. But when we passed by the bakery, her eyes fluttered closed and she inhaled the yeasty aroma.

  “When’s the last time you were outside?” We walked in front of a gift shop, and a woman waved from the window where she stacked St. Flanagan figurines.

  “Awhile,” Mrs. Sweeney finally said.

  “Like last month?”

  “No.”

  “Last year?”

  She shook her head as she took in all of downtown, watching it as if it were a Spielberg film.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was as soft as a thornbush. “Five years or so.”

  “You haven’t been outside your nursing home room?” No wonder she was so miserable. “Why?”

  “None of your business.” She lifted a hand in greeting to a woman pushing a baby stroller.

  “Mrs. Sweeney . . .” I followed the sidewalk to the left and took us to the small park. “Who is Fiona Doyle?”

  Mrs. Sweeney coughed into her fist and shook her fuzzy head. “She’s nobody.”

  I steered the wheelchair onto the grass, putting my weight into it to make the chair move. “How’s this spot?” Taking off my jacket, I laid it on the ground, then went about setting up our lunch. “Nora packed this for us. Here’s some chicken. Some sort of salad.” I lifted out the final container. “And if we’re good girls, she packed a few of Sean’s chocolate chip scones. He’s just perfected them.” I fixed Mrs. Sweeney’s plate, cutting up her meat in small pieces, then handed it to her. “So you were telling me about the letters. That’s a lot of letters you’ve written to nobody.”

  “If I must be out here, let me eat in peace.”

  “I just thought perhaps I could find the right address for you.”

  Mrs. Sweeney glared as I helped her with her fork. “I have the right address. I’m not addled.”

  “Then why—”

  “I will not discuss this.” With a sigh she chewed her chicken, a signal the conversation was over.

  Keeping one eye on our beautiful surroundings and one on my elderly charge, I noticed she ate like a bird. A very slow, tired bird, and it was hard to watch. As I continued to help her with her lunch, I kept up my one-sided conversation and was halfway through another Beatrice story when a man walked our way. He wore baggy pants, an old T-shirt, and his long, dark dreadlocks hung down like snaky ropes.

  It was Beckett’s worst disguise yet.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  I pulled out another piece of chicken for our guest. “Hi.”

  “Beautiful day out,” he said in a Jamaican accent. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Yeah. It’s nice,” I said. “Interesting Irish-Caribbean brogue you’ve got there.”

  Mrs. Sweeney eyed him with blatant suspicion. “I’m ready to go back anytime.”

  “Surely you don’t want to leave yet.” He smiled at me, revealing even, white teeth. “I hear there are actors in town. You might miss one.”

  I picked at my salad. “They’re nothing special.”

  “I hear one in particular is good-lookin’. That Rush mon.”

>   “I’ve seen better.”

  His grin deepened. “Have you now?”

  “Besides Beckett Rush is kind of . . .”

  “Charming and manly?”

  “I was going to say feminine. And pasty.”

  He laughed and took the uneaten chicken leg from my hand and brought it to his lips. “Since you insist on ripping my heart out, the least you can do is feed me.”

  “Who is this man?” Mrs. Sweeney asked. “What’s going on here?”

  “This,” I said, “is Beckett Rush. He’s an actor.” Mrs. Sweeney’s unimpressed stare made me laugh. “He stars in vampire movies.”

  Her eyes widened with interest now. “Is this true?”

  “It is, ma’am.” He took one of her veiny hands in his and gave it a small squeeze. “Just one of my little disguises so I can go about without notice. We’re making a movie a few blocks away. Finley’s been kind enough to help me with my lines.”

  “Oh, she’s real helpful,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “Finley, get the boy a plate.”

  “He’s too busy to eat with us. An important actor like Beckett probably has to eat with the cast or go to some meeting or sign autographs for screaming girls.”

  “I told you I would sign your shirtless Beckett Rush poster.” He took a seat on the grass beside me, his knee brushing against my leg. “Now, Mrs. Sweeney, I would hate to impose on your tea party, but that chicken smells quite good. I bet you used to be a fierce cook, am I right?”

  I blinked twice. Surely my eyes failed me. What was that on Mrs. Sweeney’s face? Was it . . . a smile?

  She flopped her hand and gave a small chuckle. “Sure, I cooked. But baking was my specialty.”

  “Ah.” Beckett reached over me and grabbed another piece of chicken. His arm brushed against my shoulder, and I forced myself not to draw back. “So you were all about the sugar and spice.” He shook his greasy finger at Mrs. Sweeney. “You’re my kind of woman.”